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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
81
Talk
of
war,
and
one
gets
involved
in
such
utopian
musings!
VII.
I
have
been
reading
one
of
those
prognostic
articles
on
international
politics
which
every
now
and
then
appear
in
the
reviews.
Why
I
should
so
waste
my
time
it
would
be
hard
to
say;
I
suppose
the
fascination
of
disgust
and
fear
gets
the
better
of
me
in
a
moment's
idleness.
This
writer,
who
is
horribly
perspicacious
and
vigorous,
demonstrates
the
certainty
of
a
great
European
war,
and
regards
it
with
the
peculiar
satisfaction
excited
by
such
things
in
a
certain
order
of
mind.
His
phrases
about
"dire
calamity"
and
so
on
mean
nothing;
the
whole
tenor
of
his
writing
proves
that
he
represents,
and
consciously,
one
of
the
forces
which
go
to
bring
war
about;
his
part
in
the
business
is
a
fluent
irresponsibility,
which
casts
scorn
on
all
who
reluct
at
the
"inevitable."
Persistent
prophecy
is
a
familiar
way
of
assuring
the
event.
But
I
will
read
no
more
such
writing.
This
resolution
I
make
and
will
keep.
Why
set
my
nerves
quivering
with
rage,
and
spoil
the
calm
of
a
whole
day,
when
no
good
of
any
sort
can
come
of
it?
What
is
it
to
me
if
nations
fall
a-slaughtering
each
other?
Let
the
fools
go
to
it!
Why
should
they
not
please
themselves?
Peace,
after
all,
is
the
aspiration
of
the
few;
so
it
always;
was,
and
ever
will
be.
But
have
done
with
the
nauseous
cant
about
"dire
calamity."
The
leaders
and
the
multitude
hold
no
such
view;
either
they
see
in
war
a
direct
and
tangible
profit,
or
they
are
driven
to
it,
with
heads
down,
by
the
brute
that
is
in
them.
Let
them
rend
and
be
rent;
let
them
paddle
in
blood
and
viscera
till--if
that
would
ever
happen--their
stomachs
turn.
Let
them
blast
the
cornfield
and
the
orchard,
fire
the
home.
For
all
that,
there
will
yet
be
found
some
silent
few,
who
go
their
way
amid
the
still
meadows,
who
bend
to
the
flower
and
watch
the
sunset;
and
these
alone
are
worth
a
thought.
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